


An Exercise in Resistance

by AngiePangie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Original Character(s), Seduction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-10 12:59:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2026008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngiePangie/pseuds/AngiePangie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson's younger American half-sister has come to visit 221B and is intrigued by her big brother's mysterious, brooding roommate. He's cold, distant, and not at all interested, but breaking down his walls becomes a challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely based on a sexy dream I had. While I ship Johnlock and will write something with the two of them eventually, this here is an alternate universe where John has a younger half-sister from America who has come to visit 221B.
> 
> I'll update tags as I go, since I don't yet know the full extent of what will happen ;)

The buzzer echoed through the flat and John Watson burst from his chair.

"She's here!" he cried, looking to his flatmate for a reaction. He was instead greeted with an arched eyebrow and a look of annoyance for having been so rudely pulled from his all-consuming work on his laptop. John had been counting the days since his half-sister had announced she had finally saved up the funds to visit London.

It was something they had discussed for years and it had always seemed like one of those things that was talked about but never really going to happen. He had been to see his extended family in America many times, they got on so well, and he always made sure to tease his little sister about making the trip to see him. Once the little detective business was finally bringing in consistent money and his sister had settled into a well-paying job, the actual plans began to take shape.

"Yes," Sherlock drawled, looking back to the screen on the desk in front of him. "She did text you from the cab. I fail to see the reason for surprise."

"Oh shut it," came the terse reply. John was thoroughly accustomed to Sherlock's lack of enthusiasm for things that did not involve murder. "We don't all feel utter disdain for our families."

The front door flung open and there stood Eve, hands on her hips, a mischievous smile playing across her lips. "Johnny!"

"Evey!" he exclaimed, bounding across the living room and into her arms. John hugged her tight and lifted her off the floor to dramatically swing her in a circle, her legs flailing. They both laughed boisterously, having not seen each other outside the confines of Skype for the better part of three years.

A muted groan escaped Sherlock's lips from his perch at the desk, but he didn't turn to watch the emotional display in the doorway. John hoped Eve hadn't heard, as he didn't want that to be her introduction to his friend and business partner. He was relieved as her giggling continued, unaware of the cynicism of sibling affection and undesirable house-guests that was radiating from the desk.

John finally put her down and grabbed her shoulders to hold her steady. He examined her head to toe as she beamed. "You look lovely," he cooed with a grin. Her dark auburn curls fell past her shoulders and the mid-morning light that streamed through the windows picked up various brighter red tones that shone around her face, highlighting her piercing blue eyes. He was proud to say they shared some DNA.

"Handsome as ever, Johnny-boy," she sing-songed in her American accent as she ran a hand across his sandy blonde hair. John chuckled. It always gave him a laugh to feel so close to someone who sounded so very different. He picked up the two suitcases on the floor in the hall as Eve crossed into the flat, her eyes dancing around the room as she took it all in.

"The infamous 221B," she announced. "John, I've been passing around the link to your blog. I'm determined to get you more American readers."

"You're sweet," he said, placing her cases by the stairs to his room. "I have noticed more traffic from North America, so keep it up."

Eve's eyes finally settled on Sherlock, facing his laptop screen, unmoving like a statue. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she said in her best British accent with a wry smile, extending her hand.

In the two seconds it took for him to reach for her proffered hand, Sherlock's mind had analyzed her three words to him, meticulously dissecting them to evaluate her attempt at mimicry. A few of the inflections were good, she hit the R a little too hard, but overall a decent effort. Although it wouldn't fool him in an interrogation.

Sherlock looked up, remembering John's previous scolding for having avoided eye-contact when meeting people for the first time, and scanned the American figure before him. John Watson's father's nose, but definitely a curve of the lips that belonged to an entirely different DNA group. She was John's height but her build was rounder and more feminine than Harry's, his only frame of reference for a female Watson. The shape of her eyes was certainly akin to John's, but they seemed wider and missing the deep seated trauma that laced his flatmate's. Not to mention she was younger than John, late twenties, her skin smoother and lacking the subtle wrinkles he had come to know, and track in a spreadsheet to catalogue age and life experience's effect on appearance over time.

"Pleasure," he said flatly, the word in stark contrast to his masked expression and even tone. Despite the fact that his face and demeanor positively screamed BORED, Eve's eyes were bright and she shook his hand vigorously.

"I've read all your cases," she proclaimed. "Very impressive." Her hand was soft, regularly moisturized, and her nails were short and manicured, painted in a pale pink hue. Takes care of herself but not vain or tacky, further proven by her understated makeup and the lack of chemical odors or the characteristic scent of heat styled hair. Natural curls.

"I know." He turned back to his computer and clacked away at the keyboard. Eve turned to John who stood by the stairs, palm covering his face. He returned her glance and shrugged his shoulders in defeat. She turned back to Sherlock after a moment.

"You know," she started, her American call-it-like-you-see-it attitude rearing its head, "I've been warned not to take your rudeness personally, so that's just what I'm gonna do." She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezed softly. He didn't look up again, but she felt the rigidness melt for a fleeting moment before his body resumed its ramrod straight posture. It was quick and subtle, but it didn't go unnoticed. She did, after all, share John's social intelligence and observation skills.

"Right," John broke the momentarily awkward silence. "Let's get you unpacked." He picked up the cases and headed up the stairs. Eve let her hand drop from Sherlock's shoulder and followed on her brother's heels. They both disappeared around the corner and Sherlock counted the sound of footsteps as they ascended. Suddenly there was a quick thudding rhythm and Eve's head poked from the stairs into the living room. This time his head instinctively whirled around to see.

"I'll make you smile before my time here is up," she announced with waggling eyebrows. Her British accent resurfaced. "You can count on it, Mr. Holmes." A wink and she was gone again.

Sherlock turned to his screen. He let out a huff of breath as his mouth turned up ever so slightly in one corner.

 

***

 

It was two in the morning when John and Eve finally stumbled back into the flat. John had taken her out to his favourite pub to celebrate her arrival and they had hit the pints hard. Although he spent much of the time swatting away the drunken fools hitting on his sister, he had still enjoyed himself and found great pleasure in Eve's enthusiastic nature and curiosity for all things British. She was charming and easy-going and it was no wonder she attracted the attention of every bloke in the place. It was something she was obviously accustomed to, as she had an uncanny ability of turning down suitors so gently that they didn't even realize they were being told to piss off.

"That Mike Stamford, what an adorable man!" she clapped John on the back as they rooted around in the fridge for a snack. In their inebriated state they hadn't even noticed Sherlock's still figure as they passed into the kitchen. 

He stood in his dressing gown facing the wall behind the sofa in the living room, arms akimbo, his head swiveling in slow circles as his eyes jumped around the bits of information posted to the wall. Maps, photos, graphs, post-it notes, the seemingly chaotic bits of data coming together in his mind to form one coherent picture. The commotion in the kitchen tore him from his concentration and elicited a throaty harumph. He brought both hands to his head and ruffled his hair in frustration.

The chatter turned to whispers, but Sherlock's ears were too sensitive for such a tactic.

"We should be quiet. I bet Sherlock's sleeping." Eve breathed softly.

"No, I'm not," he grumbled through gritted teeth from the living room.

"Blimey!" she exclaimed, and John let out a hearty laugh. Eve darted out of the kitchen to see Sherlock glaring at her with the expression usually reserved for fathers catching their daughters coming in after curfew. "You scared me, mate!"

"I think we've all had enough of the accent," he droned, crossing his arms. 

"Speak for yourself, Sherlock," John interjected as he appeared at Eve's side holding a bowl of crisps. "I think she's really got a knack for it."

Eve was unperturbed as she strutted forward, face to face with the cranky detective. "Would you like to hear my Cockney?" she grinned.

Sherlock took a step back from the tipsy woman crowding his personal space. "Spare us," he snarled.

She smiled a toothy smile and leaped forward, hands outstretched. "If you slept once in a while maybe you wouldn't be so foul!" Her hands darted into Sherlock's robe and her fingers roughly tickled and pinched at his sides. His mouth fell open and he jumped backwards once again, his brow crinkling in disbelief at the invasion.

"Maybe if you drank less you wouldn't be so handsy," he retorted and turned his focus back to the wall.

Eve let slip a prolonged  _pssshhh_ of dismissal and sat in the big leather chair opposite John's recliner. She leaned forward and grabbed for a handful of crisps. "Barrel of laughs, that one." She tilted her head towards the crabby detective and John snorted.

"Welcome to my life."

The siblings sat and chatted for a while, slowly sobering up over their salty snack, their conversation punctuated by the occasional moan or scoff from Sherlock across the room.

Eventually John's yawning got the best of him and he excused himself for the night.

"I'm not quite ready," Eve said as she hugged her brother goodnight. "Jetlag."

Eve settled into the fresh silence of the room, scanning a magazine, but keeping her peripheral focus on the pacing detective fifteen feet away. She was thoroughly intrigued, knowing what she knew about him from the blog and now having finally met him. She knew him to be incomparably intelligent, sly and charming when he needed to be for the sake of extracting information, and also hopelessly single and isolated. Not to mention grumpy. He was a code that she desperately wanted to crack. There had to be another layer to this man that nobody had exposed yet.

The little bit of liquid courage that remained in Eve's system propelled her from the chair and she crossed the room like a panther stalking its prey. Only with Sherlock she knew he was aware of her movements. Felt her coming. Probably sensed the change in airflow as her body slithered towards him, or some such nonsense. She sidled up behind him as he stood motionless, a contemplative finger on his chin.

"The butler did it," she whispered into his shoulder blades. There was a slight flinch beneath the red silk of his robe and she felt a smug wave of satisfaction for having taken him off guard.

There was an audible intake of breath and exasperated exhale. "I've solved four cases in which the butler did in fact do it. It's a cliché for a reason."

Eve could tell he wasn't going to acknowledge her any further so she moved again, this time shifting herself around his body, staying close, actually hoping he would consider it another violation of personal space. She was at his side now, looking up at him. He was beautiful in an inexplicable, almost exotic way, all lean lines and sharp angles, almost from another time. She glanced up to the wild curls he had tousled earlier.

"Nice mop," she teased, keeping her eyes locked on him. She wondered how often anyone really challenged his eccentricities, having only heard about how he was tolerated and catered to because of his genius. His body was stiff, on guard against the physical closeness she sensed was not a part of his daily life.

"My hairstyle has no bearing on my ability to solve crimes."

Man, was he ever severe.

Eve persevered. "I didn't say it was useful to your work," she said as she scanned his entire form that faced the wall and ignored her very close proximity. "I only meant it's completely sexy."

At this, Sherlock's head turned smoothly and his eyes lowered to meet hers. She was momentarily taken aback by the blue-green eyes that regarded her. They were intense and somehow sad, but mesmerizing nonetheless, and she could have sworn they'd been more of a gray-green earlier. She congratulated herself on getting a reaction.

"Flirtation must be a dominant trait in the Watson genome." His chameleon eyes blazed into her.

Her smoldering temptress facade fell away and she laughed, circling him the rest of the way and seating herself directly in front of him. "You nailed it," she conceded. Eve splayed her arms out across the top of the sofa and crossed her legs. "But we're picky," she added. "A Watson flirt is reserved for the truly deserving."

Sherlock's head tilted as he grunted in disagreement. "A John Watson flirt is most definitely not overly selective."

Eve howled with laughter now, the man before her having perfectly encapsulated her brother's pick-up technique. His eyes drifted from the wall of data down to the hysterical woman on the sofa. She was making it impossible to ignore her now, having situated herself directly in his line of sight. She suddenly sat forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

"Tell me what you're working on," she said. "Maybe I can help."

Sherlock released a loud sigh that reeked of irritation. "Doubt it."

"Come on," Eve pressed. "Don't be such a dick. It's Saturday night."

The word rolled around in Sherlock's mind. It was the forty-fifth time he'd been called a dick in the past two years, twenty-seven of them having originated from John's mouth. Definitely related.

"Fine," he relinquished. "If you insist on intruding, you may as well help."

"Bring it on," she clapped her hands together and rubbed, prepping herself for the mental exercise.

"Mrs. O'Connell was murdered last week. Poisoned. Statistically speaking, it's a woman's weapon. The only females in her life close enough to execute it are her four daughters. I'm now trying to deduce which one had a motive to kill her mother. There's no real wealth or inheritance to speak of, so financial motives are out." He looked from the wall down to Eve who was listening intently. "Go on then," he dared.

Eve cleared her throat and got to her feet. She faced Sherlock and raised an eyebrow at him, accepting the challenge. She turned to see the wall, this new information giving her a chance to make some sense of the mess now. Lines were drawn between photos of people, professions, marital statuses and addresses scrawled beneath the portraits. He had clearly been trying to make connections but had failed.

Her eyes landed on the photo of Mrs. O'Connell, a matronly looking woman in her mid to late fifties with graying hair and kind eyes. Below it were all the specs Sherlock had assembled. Eve noticed three email addresses, one clearly an office email, one a home email containing her full name, and a third. It was odd.

"Daisygirl82," she read the username aloud. 

"Yes," Sherlock said. "A court order to her internet provider got us her online activity."

"And you see nothing strange about that particular email address?" Eve prodded.

"Apart from being a tad immature for a fifty-seven year old woman?"

"Get into that account," she went on. "I'll bet you'll find she corresponded with entirely different people than she did in her other accounts. I bet you'll find that she never once sent her daughters an email or forwarded a friend some funny cat pictures."

Sherlock glared at her but didn't dare voice his confusion.

Eve could tell he hadn't caught on. After all, he was perpetually single, anti-social, and insultingly honest to a fault. It was no wonder he couldn't see this deception that stared him in the face. "Listen," she answered his unasked questions. "Why 82? Did you wonder at all about the number? You're right, the username is immature, but not in the way you're thinking. It's a year. 1982. I've seen usernames just like it all over the internet. Hell, I was once passionfruit13 for a few years before I decided that advertising my age was probably not the best idea."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.

Eve was glowing with pride now. "She's lying about her age, Sherlock. To someone online. That account probably has all the answers you'll need. Trust me, I've tried online dating. Meeting someone in person who looks nothing like their photos and descriptions can be infuriating. Maybe she just pissed off the wrong person who then dropped rat poison into her pint on a first date. Who knows."

He was approaching the wall now, his hand outstretched and touching the post-it containing the email addresses, as if touching it would bring all the pieces together in his mind. How could he have missed that? He shut his eyes tight and chided himself inwardly.

Eve put a hand on his back and caressed him gently. "Just an observation," she said, seeing his obvious disappointment in himself. "Do with it what you will." He was so absorbed with the wall that his body didn't react to her touch this time.

"Well, night night," she offered the still form hunched over the sofa and headed for the stairs to tuck herself into John's bed as he slept on the blowup mattress on the floor. She yawned and stretched as she went, looking back only momentarily to see Sherlock now clicking away on his laptop, most certainly hacking poor Daisygirl82's account.

She mentally patted herself on the back. She would decode the enigma of Sherlock Holmes before her time here was through. And she'd just made the first breakthrough. Besting him at his own game was a risky maneuver, but she knew he wouldn't underestimate her again, even if he had resisted her flirtation.

Sherlock scrolled through a flurry of emails to and from Mrs. O'Connell, and there it was. A two month long online affair with a man of twenty-eight, decades old photos being sent his way. He expressed his budding love for her from their email communication alone, and his excitement to finally meet in person. The date of their encounter was the night before she was found dead in her home.

He stood from his computer and huffed a heavy sigh. All because of the number 82. Eve Watson wasn't some dim American at all.

Sherlock plopped his now tired body onto the sofa and was hit with a puff of air laced with Eve's scent from just minutes before when she had sat right there. It was sweet and floral, not overpowering or overly artificial. His memory echoed back to him her soft, teasing voice telling him he was sexy, and a delayed rush of endorphins coursed through his system at the thought.


	2. First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Eve Watson's relationship takes a step forward, but not in the way Eve hoped it would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> High five to my sister for inspiring this chapter by answering the question "What do you want Sherlock and Eve to do next?"

"I need you," Sherlock stated as he glided into the kitchen without so much as glancing at Eve and John eating their breakfasts.

"I'm flattered but I think we should just be mates," John teased, sipping his tea while winking at his sleepy half-sister.

"No, you."

"It's Eve. Nice to meet you." She turned over her shoulder to greet Sherlock. John grinned, absolutely basking in the way she didn't take his flatmate's shit. Nobody intimidated Eve.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and finally turned to the siblings at his kitchen table, fed up with the superfluous chit chat when all he wanted was to get to the point. He tossed a scrap of paper in front of Eve. On it was scrawled one word in elegant, loopy handwriting.

_BlmsbryBloke_

"Very nice," she managed before setting down the paper and taking a bite of her toast.

Sherlock was practically vibrating with his need to lay it all out, include them in his newest discoveries. John knew him well enough to know he'd be positively insulted if no one asked him what he knew. He let him suffer a moment longer before sighing audibly, checking out the scrap of paper, and asking, "Okay, Sherlock. What's _BlmsbryBloke_?"

And he was off at the speed of light.

"BlmsbryBloke is the email username of the man who was corresponding with Martha O'Connell. I spent the last day and a half reading through every single message between the two of them. It seemed pretty clear that Mrs. O'Connell was attempting to establish a romantic connection remotely before meeting this man in person. I'll bet she hoped that love would conquer all," at this he rolled his eyes again, "and that her deceit and the decades between them would be forgiven. Since she's dead, it's safe to assume it was  _not._

They'd set up their date at a pub in central London, and within twenty four hours, she was lying on a slab at St. Bart's, poisoned. Now, why do I need your sister, John? Simple. After the tedious email reading I set up an account on the dating site they had been using and searched the users for BlmsbryBloke. Not too bright, keeping the same name after using the site to commit murder, but stupidity is to be expected in most cases. I engaged him in conversation, enticed him by pretending to be from the same neighbourhood, and now we have a date in Bloomsbury tonight. Obvious really, given his choice of handle."

John squinted at his flatmate. "You have a date?"

"Well technically Eve has a date. Or rather 'Liz.'"

Eve stood from her stool, her hand to her brow as she worked it out. "Okay so let me get this straight. You're setting me up with a suspected murderer?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, ignorant to the fuming Watsons before him. "Didn't I just say that?"

"And when you say you engaged him, I'm assuming you mean you baited him with photos of me?"

"Precisely. You should really update your Facebook security settings."

Eve's mouth fell open and she looked to John for a shared outrage. He was simply shaking his head, staring at Sherlock in disbelief. "Sherlock, what you've just done is wrong on so many levels, I don't even know where to begin."

"Oh come on, John," he defended. "Don't tell me that adrenaline craving, thrill-seeking behaviour doesn't run in the family."

"Is he serious right now?" Eve looked to John for answers.

"I'm afraid so."

"Listen, I'll be nearby, and we know his modus operandi so Eve will be vigilant about her food and drink. I need to find out where he lives. His name is Jeremy Walker. I was able to find three with such names in the Bloomsbury area but this would save me a great deal of time. I'd rather not tail three people when I can go straight to the right one. Once I find out where he lives I'll get the conclusive evidence I need to bring to Lestrade."

"Tailing people? Spying? Undercover? Breaking and entering?" Eve's face was scrunched as she rattled off the activities she'd only read about in her brother's blog.

"This is ridiculous, Sherlock. Eve's here to visit, not to work on your bloody cases."

"I'll do it." She turned to face Sherlock whose mouth was now pressed in a hard line, tilting up in the corners. She took a step forward and poked him in the ribs through his immaculately pressed white Oxford. "I'll take that as a smile."

 

***

 

That night Eve Watson descended the stairs in the cutest dress she had brought with her. It was a pin-up inspired emerald green number, form fitting and long enough to be classy, but with a deep enough v-neck to still be tantalizing. Her hair tumbled down in soft curls around her shoulders and she was sure to apply her reddest lipstick. Inwardly she knew that the ensemble was designed to get a reaction out of Sherlock, and not Jeremy Watson, alleged murderer.

But what she said when she reached the bottom of the stairs was, "Eat your heart out, Jeremy."

John wheeled around and immediately suggested a cardigan. Sherlock sauntered in from the kitchen and froze in place. He mentally commended her for the effort, but it was more than that. His head spun and his thoughts began to jumble in a way that he thoroughly disliked. He'd always been able to discern which women were objectively attractive and which weren't, but this sensation was different. He felt an odd shifting of muscles in his stomach and rocked his weight from foot to foot. Nerves? No, he'd engaged in much more dangerous activities than a simple undercover stake-out job. Sherlock pushed back the strange feeling with a gulp.

"Right then. Here we go."

None of Sherlock's uneasy mannerisms escaped Eve's notice, nor did the slight crack in his voice as he ushered them out of the flat. She indulged John and slipped on a light sweater that she'd left hanging by the door just as Sherlock pulled on his long coat with a dramatic flourish. John was down and almost out the door when Eve stopped in the middle of the stairway, bringing Sherlock crashing into her back. She ascended two stairs until she was eye to eye with him. He narrowed his eyes as he waited for her to speak and she saw a subtle hitch of breath as he regarded her, inches from his face.

"No hat?" she grinned.

"Ha ha," he retorted bitingly.

 

***

 

From across the pub, John and Sherlock sipped their beers, occasionally stealing glances at 'Liz' and her date. Sherlock had been relieved to see the same man from the photos stroll through the door. His pupils had blown wide at the sight of Eve and, even from afar, it was obvious his speech was stuttered and nervous.

"He's smitten," John said, taking a long swig of beer. "Probably relieved after his last internet dating fiasco."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, not taking his eyes off his mark.

"Don't be so obvious," John warned. "She knows not to leave the pub. Don't get caught staring. Casually. Every so often. Not so intense."

Jeremy reached out and touched Eve's hand across the table and Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the corner booth. When Eve smiled, Sherlock scoffed. When she laughed enthusiastically at something her date said, he looked away. He had to hand it to her though, she was really playing it up, acting the part of an interested singleton on a promising first date.

"He's good looking," John interrupted Sherlock's train of thought. "Tall, dark and handsome type."

Another scoff from Sherlock as he took a dainty sip of his drink.

John went on. "I bet he doesn't have trouble getting dates. I just hope he reacted better to any other less than stellar evenings out."

"You're wondering if there were any other victims," Sherlock finally joined the conversation.

"Well yeah, I suppose."

"Exactly what my search of his flat will tell us. I doubt a man who goes on dates with poison in tow generally has good intentions."

"Oh my god, you're too much!" Eve exclaimed from across the pub. Sherlock didn't turn around this time, simply checked his watch. 

"It's been twenty minutes. How long are these things meant to last?" He looked at John, sincerity in his eyes.

"Geez Sherlock." He could be so naive underneath his incredible intelligence. "It's a date. People stay as long as they're having fun. The odd time they even make a night of it."

"Well they surely can't stay in the pub  _all_ night," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

John was flabbergasted. "I mean people sometimes go home together, if it goes well."

"Ah," he took a moment to absorb this bit of social trivia. He waited a few more minutes before turning in the booth again to check for any developments. Really there was no need for her to prolong this first meeting. They had simply needed to lure him there in order to track him back home. Why was Eve bothering with all the batted eyelashes and flirtatious banter?

Eve laughed at something and lifted the beer to her mouth. Jeremy turned to the side, seeming to fumble in his pockets for something. As her date was distracted, she took the opportunity to scope out the eavesdroppers in the corner booth. Her eyes met Sherlock's over her pint glass and she shot him a playful wink. She put down the glass and slowly licked her ruby-red lips, never breaking eye contact.

Sherlock spun back on the bench to face John.

"You're all red!" John accused. "What's the matter?"

He rubbed his cheeks, unsure what the tingling flushed sensation was that was overcoming his face. Sherlock shrugged off his coat.

"Must just be warm in here." He was relieved that John hadn't seen the gesture as he would have had no way to explain it. Eve had come on to him a few nights before, he wasn't completely obtuse, but he had mastered his calm, cool exterior in the face of such advances. Hers had not been the first.

But now as he drank his ale with a quicker pace, his mind flooded with thoughts of Eve's green dress, size ten, the nude high heels, size five, and the subtle smell of lilacs that had drifted into his sinuses as she teased him on the stairs. She'd spotted the email address, for which he still berated himself, with such ease, and she had jumped on board tonight's little adventure with minimal coaxing. 

Dammit. He squeezed his eyes shut and gave his head a slight shake as if the thoughts might pop out his ears and he'd be rid of them. She was no different than John, smart, intuitive, socially aware, and game for an impromptu case.  _Completely sexy._ Her voice bounced around his mind yet again. Definitely not John. But what was she playing at? He was a most unsociable man, married to his work and devoid of interests of the flesh. She read the blog, she would have known this. So what was all this then, the winks, the invading his personal bubble, the sexy nonsense?

It hit him hard, lighting up in his brain in a flash the way any great deduction did. She was toying with him. Teasing him, and not in a gentle way. In a cruel, mocking way. He downed the rest of his beer much to John's surprise, who was only half finished.

"Give her the signal," Sherlock ordered.

John decided to let the unnecessary forcefulness slide and exited the booth. Once at the bar he ordered two shots of tequila, loudly, and headed back to his seat.

"Well I've had a great time, Jeremy," Eve began to excuse herself. "I've got an early shift tomorrow so I have to be off to bed." She grinned seductively, letting the image of herself in bed permeate his thoughts. He stood and said his goodbyes, clearly disappointed, and watched Eve head out the front door, his eyes heading a little further south than John would have liked. He downed both tequilas back to back.

 

***

 

Eve climbed into the backseat of the black rented SUV ten minutes later in front of the shop down the street.

John drove slowly, pretending to look for an address, and once in a while dipped into a side street to circle around. Each time he did they came upon Jeremy strolling down the street. It was another fifteen minutes before they watched him enter a three story building. John pulled into an alley nearby and turned off the engine and lights, leaving them in complete darkness.

Eve's heart was racing. She was really doing this, really hiding in a back alley while they trailed some murderous man back to his home. Suddenly John was clicking an ammo clip into his gun. "I'm going to see which unit he goes into. You two stay here." He hopped out of the vehicle and disappeared into the night.

They sat in silence for a few moments while Sherlock rolled down his window and tried to keep eyes on John as best he could. It was useless.

"So," Eve said. "You're the brain and he's the brawn then?"

"Apparently," Sherlock mumbled, uninterested in engaging her flirtatious nonsense any longer. He refused to be the butt of a joke.

"He was a nice guy. Terrifying, really, that he was someone I would totally go out with, and look what he's capable of."

"Indeed."

"I think I need you two to trail all my potential dates from now on. Give me the scoop." She leaned forward in the back seat behind him. He said nothing and she knew he was going to make her work for this.

"Handsome too."

A grunt. "If you like classic good looks I suppose."

"I do," she said, reaching up to the space between the front seat and the headrest. A small wisp of black hair curled just at nape of Sherlock's neck. Eve wrapped it around her fingers and leaned around the seat until her lips almost touched his ear. "But I like the way you look too."

"You've mentioned that."

"I'm telling you that you're attractive," she pushed, letting her fingers drag along the skin of his neck and down to his collarbone that barely peeked out of his button-up shirt.

A shiver shot all the way down Sherlock's spine and he stiffened. He'd been bombarded by unwanted hugs and physical affection before, mostly by Mrs. Hudson, but his body had never reacted like this. He struggled to regain his composure again before speaking.

"Just a vessel."

Eve chuckled. He was incredibly uncomfortable yet trying to maintain some semblance of ambivalence to her touch. It was almost endearing. "A mighty fine vessel, I must say," she added before pulling her hand away and sitting back in her seat. She'd tortured him enough. At least for now.


	3. Circadian Rhythms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve Watson has gotten into Sherlock's mind, and he wants her out.

Soft hands traced delicate lines down his torso before grabbing a firm hold of his hips. As the figure above him leaned forward the faint scent of lilacs drifted past his nose. It was dark and blurry and abstract in every way imaginable but he was soothed by the gentle lapping of hair against his skin. The details didn't matter, for once in his life. It was pure sensation and relaxation, and most importantly a release of his typical methodical analyses.

Sherlock saw flashes of green against the darkness and his hands smoothed against silk. A soft warmth began to trail across his chest, down his stomach. Wet. Pleasant. Moving lips and and the drag of teeth against sensitive flesh.

He shot upright in bed and his eyes burst open to see nothing but his dark bedroom and a glow of light coming from under his door. His entire body was hot, muscles clenched and aching. The dream flooded back now and he wiped the sweat from his brow, heaving a heavy sigh of frustration. He was not one for intimate physical contact, messy really, and the satisfying nature of the dream was in stark contrast to his logical, waking mind. The heat in his body began to subside into anger.

Eve Watson's little mind games had penetrated deep into his psyche. He resented that something so trivial was using up precious brainpower while other more interesting things needed his attention. Being taunted was something he just didn't have time for, especially now that it was becoming so invasive. Sherlock had spent a small portion of his adolescent years indulging in his curiosity about the opposite sex, but his thirst for knowledge in the area had been satiated. It had been more than enough to understand the human psychology behind crimes of a sexual nature. It was about the work.

He sensed the tightness and straining in his lap under the sheets and scoffed. Unnecessary. Inconvenient. And juvenile. A body controlling a brain just would not do. A human physiological reaction to stimuli, nothing more.

Sherlock laid back down and closed his eyes, breathing deeply and consciously filling his thoughts with the testing he would have to do tomorrow on the stash of pills they had recovered from Jeremy Walker's flat. Try as he might to relax, the slit of light infiltrating the room from under the door penetrated his eyelids and he knew he could not sleep. He silently cursed John for having left the kitchen light on. Might as well start the tests now. He'd slept four hours and that was plenty given that he'd also slept three the previous night. He threw his red dressing gown on over his bare chest and pajama pants, ruffled his bed-head curls, and headed out the door.

He shuffled into the kitchen and rubbed his eyes as the bright light assaulted his sleepy senses. He heard her before he saw her, his knuckles grinding into his sockets.

"You scared me," Eve said. As his vision cleared Sherlock saw their house guest leaning over the granite island. He groaned loudly, annoyed that his quiet research time was interrupted. He let the groan draw out a bit longer at the sight of her skimpy outfit of barely there shorts and a loose fitting tank top.

"What are you doing?" He didn't even attempt to mask the exasperation in his voice.

"You caught me," she stood upright. "Insomnia."

"Sleep is overrated," he declared, plucking an unfamiliar laptop from the counter and pushing it aside. He needed elbow room to work at his microscope.

"Leonard Cohen said the last refuge of the insomniac is a sense of superiority to the sleeping world," Eve crossed her arms and leaned back against the cupboards. "That about sums you up."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow and glared at her. "And W.C. Fields said the best cure for insomnia is to get a lot of sleep. So off you go." He nodded towards the stairs.

Eve dove forward and leaned across the island, resting on her elbows. "Well aren't you quick!" Her smile was broad and her eyes were bright. It was thrilling to see that amazing brain work its magic in person. Reading about such cleverness just wasn't the same as being face to face with it.

"I know."

"And humble too."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. Now if you don't mind, I have work to do."

Eve huffed loudly, thoroughly irked by Sherlock's dismissal. "It's three in the morning. There is nothing to do."

Sherlock sat on a stool, crushed a white pill onto a slide, and adjusted the eyepiece and focus of the microscope. Ignoring this intruder seemed his only option. He peered into the device and said nothing more as Eve watched him intently, chin resting in her hands. He was a human marvel and she counted herself lucky to see him at work, even if he was obviously wishing nothing more than for her departure.

The laptop that had been cast aside chirped to life with a series of musical tones. Sherlock's chest rose and fell in a sigh of frustration but he didn't look up from his specimen.

"Sorry. Skype." Eve whirled around the island and clicked a few keys, ending the persistent dinging. "My editor, probably. He's relentless. Like you, working even though it's ten pm in New York."

"Journalist?"

Eve's spirit lifted momentarily. Had she caught his attention?

"No," she replied, resuming her pose over the island at Sherlock's side. "You mean you didn't even Google me?"

"Busy," he said, turning his attention back to the microscope.

"Novelist," Eve answered the unasked question. 

"Only slightly better," it was almost a whisper through his furrowed brow, deep in concentration. "I hate the press." There was a moment of silence as Eve kept up her vigil of the pajama clad detective. "For a moment I thought I might have another blogger on my hands."

Eve's hand flew up to cover her boisterous laughter. "You  _can_ be funny! I knew it!"

Sherlock pushed his body back from the table and hung his head in resignation. There would be no working under these conditions. "Must you infringe upon every facet of my life whilst you're with us?" He crossed his arms and shot her a fierce scowl.

Eve's mouth dropped open, but she didn't back down, simply tilted her body towards him, only one elbow supporting her head now. "Maybe you're the one who's infringing. I was in the kitchen first after all." She quickly extended her free hand and tugged at the red fabric of his robe, wrapped tightly around his body. One jostle and the two sides of the garment fell away revealing the bare skin beneath. She took a quick peek then waggled her eyebrows at him.

Sherlock pulled the robe back in place in a hurry. "Why the constant need to torment me?" His teeth were gritted, but the flush in his cheeks turned him from irritated grump to endearing schoolboy.

Eve chuckled. "Because nobody can really be this stone cold."

"You should meet my brother."

"No really," she turned her body to face him, resting her body against the island. "I told you I find you attractive. The pink in your face tells me it might be mutual."

Sherlock cringed. "Simple physiological reaction." The memory of his earlier dream popped to the forefront of his mind, as well as his other bodily response. The red in his cheeks deepened.

Eve bent forward until she was practically nose to nose with him. Her eyes softened as his intensified. She reached out a hand and gently tucked a stray curl behind his ear. "Well maybe your body's telling you something that your mind doesn't know yet." Her voice was just above a whisper and Sherlock felt her breath on his mouth. He suppressed a shudder that threatened to blow his cover of composure.

"My mind is the first to know everything." Much to his chagrin, the words came out breathy and slightly strained.

Eve let her fingers play around his ear, caressing the soft skin behind it. "Why are you so angry with me?"

"You mock me. You're playing a game, and not the interesting kind."

Eve took a step back, her hand falling away from Sherlock's face. The distance between them felt suddenly vast and cold. Sherlock told himself it was a draft in the flat, ignoring his body's disappointment with the end of her touch.

"Boy, for a professional detective you can't deduce for shit." She'd had enough for the time being and the thought of her warm bed compared to the icy man before her became suddenly appealing, insomnia be damned. "It's no game," she asserted as she headed for the stairs. 

Sherlock said nothing, only listened to the sound of her bare feet on the hard floor as she left.

She turned quickly to see his back to her, his spine rigid. "What is it about your hair being messed up that is so appealing to me?" she asked. "Figure that one out, Mr. Know-It-All." And she was gone up the stairs.

 


	4. Consistent Persistence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock continues his work on the Jeremy Walker case at Bart's and Eve and John pay him a visit. Eve and Molly come face to face, and Eve gets further under Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock decided his simple setup in the flat was insufficient to properly analyse the chemical compounds of Jeremy Walker's poison, so he made his way to Bart's on a dreary afternoon. He'd spent a few hours researching different substances and their affect on the human body before he suddenly found himself typing Eve Watson's name into Google.

Two published novels; one a historical romance set in Civil War era America, and a crime drama. Its sequel was in production. Eve's work had been well received by critics, and he found rumours about film options as well. It seemed her career had taken an upturn lately, and the advance for her next book had no doubt paid for her holiday to London.

He'd also stumbled across several essays, social commentaries, on reputable news sites. It seemed a propensity for the written word ran in the Watson family, although he'd always been confused by the success of John's exaggerated and unfocused blog posts. Why Sherlock's eating and sleeping habits were of interest to anyone would remain an unsolved mystery.

A crack of thunder rattled the windows of the second story lab. The day had turned nasty. Sherlock shuffled over to the window, hands in his pockets, his focus on work now completely lost. John had taken Eve to see the sights and they'd be thoroughly soaked by now if they were still out and about. 

"Arrghh," he snarled, willing his mind back to the task at hand. Here he was wasting time, googling and daydreaming, when he should be narrowing down a list of poisons until he could pinpoint the one that had killed Mrs. O'Connell. Sherlock reminded himself why he kept himself at a distance from social endeavors and relationships. Distractions. All of it. Back to work.

The door to the lab swung open and Sherlock whirled around to see John and Eve standing in the doorway, sopping wet and laughing.

"Why couldn't we have picked a sunny afternoon for tourist stuff?" Eve giggled as she shook her arms, droplets flying every which way.

"Welcome to England," John teased, chucking his mangled umbrella on the floor. 

Sherlock looked to his laptop, the screen adorned with row upon row of photos of Eve Watson. Google images. He flew across the room in a blur and slammed it closed before turning back to the new arrivals.

"Nowhere else to pop in for shelter?" 

"Nice to see you too," John smiled, choosing to ignore the guilty move he knew all too well from shielding his own laptop from a flatmate who steadfastly refused to knock. "Actually we were on our way here. Eve wanted to see where I studied, as well as the lab."

"Another famous landmark from the blog," Eve added as she made her way across the room. "That door there, is it a washroom?"

Sherlock nodded as she passed by, pinching his cheek as she went. His expression didn't falter from its neutral position.

The door closed behind Eve and John pulled off his jacket and set it on a chair. "Don't be so uncivilized," he scolded. "She likes you. And she's family."

Sherlock only grunted and sat back down to fiddle with the medicine dropper and various beakers scattered across the workstation. He was perfectly civilized. She was the one tickling him and relentlessly touching his hair. Strange how John viewed the world sometimes.

"Coffee!" Molly Hooper announced as she came in through the open door. 

"Molly, hello!" John smiled.

"Oh, John! Hi!" She handed Sherlock a styrofoam cup as her cheeks flushed. She knew she doted on Sherlock and hated being caught in the act. But she couldn't help it. "I didn't know you'd be here today as well. I would have brought you something!"

"No, no," John could practically feel her nervous energy. "I'm perfectly fine. Just popping in."

Molly adjusted her white coat and smiled sheepishly. "Interesting case, this." She gestured to Sherlock who was absorbed in the microscope.

"Yeah," John agreed. "Makes you a bit skeptical of the whole online dating scene, that's for sure."

Sherlock didn't look up as he added, "Indeed, Molly, you should consider taking down your three profiles."

"Geez, Sherlock." John turned from his flatmate back to Molly who looked completely deflated. "I'm sorry, he's so insensitive," he cut himself off with a wave of his own hand. "You know what, you already know that. Online dating can be great, don't let this turn you off. I've met plenty of great women online."

"Two. Don't know about great."

"Shut up, Sherlock." John cringed.

Molly excused herself and set up at a workstation facing the wall. 

"I am soaked to the bone," Eve exclaimed as she exited the washroom. "Those paper towels don't help one..." She paused as she noticed the newest occupant of the room staring at her. "Oh hi, I'm Eve, John's half-sister." She hurried forward with an outstretched hand as Molly's eyes widened. Eve was drenched head to toe, her curls still dripping down her shoulders and her clothes stuck tight to her body.

"Molly Hooper," she managed in the face of the smiling woman straight out of a scene from a romantic comedy.

Eve's eyes lit up. "Molly! Oh my God, this is so weird!"

Molly looked to John for an answer but Eve continued. "No, not you, you're not weird, it's weird having read all about you and now here you are!"

"Ah yes," Molly clued in, finally shaking her hand. "The blog."

Eve ran up behind Sherlock and grabbed him by the shoulders, giving him a playful shake. "Don't take any shit from this guy, okay?"

John laughed as Sherlock's eyes rolled dramatically while he was jostled about on his chair. He loved watching his sister ignore the detective's crotchety attitude and push his boundaries. He then looked to Molly whose mouth was pressed in a hard line as she watched the display. Yikes. Molly's pining for Sherlock was obvious and John would wager she'd never even touched him any more intimately than a handshake, and now here was Eve, all hands. He should put a stop to this before the awkwardness became thick enough to taste. He'd have to explain the unrequited dynamic to Eve later.

Molly stood up abruptly. "I forgot cream for my coffee. Back in a bit."

John winced. He hated seeing this lovely woman be so uncomfortable. "I'd love a coffee too," he said. "I'll come with."

Sherlock was not oblivious to the goings-on in the room, but he deemed it not worth his time to intervene in order to cater to everyone else's social expectations of him. He didn't need to understand feelings to see that Molly had them, in abundance, for him. The physiological signs were obvious, nervous speech patterns, higher pitch, not to mention the constant invitations to various events and activities, prying questions about his personal life, and the way her appearance differed when she knew he was coming versus his unexpected visits.

Eve sat quietly in his peripheral vision, watching him work. He said nothing, simply continued to change the slides and scribble notes on the paper beside him.

Finally she spoke. "John never mentioned in the blog how smitten Molly is with you."

Sherlock looked up at this. "You find it that obvious?" He crossed his arms. "I mean, it's glaringly obvious to me, but I'm surprised you deduced it in such a brief encounter."

"Please," Eve clucked her tongue. "A woman knows."

"Is that your scientific evidence?" He raised an eyebrow.

Eve saw the skeptical expression and took it as a challenge. "Well it was clear she didn't know what to make of me. My presence here. I could see the wheels turning.  _Who is that?_ And then I touched you and _oh boy_. I've never seen someone try to suppress a reaction like that. And then she bolted. Jealousy is easy to spot."

"Ridiculous. There's nothing to be jealous of."

"She likes you but she's afraid of you. Understandable given your rudeness."

Sherlock's eyes rolled again. He'd heard that before and was sick of it. "It's not rude! I'm sparing her disappointment." He paused, absorbing Eve's analysis. "Afraid?"

Eve grinned and moved her stool closer to Sherlock. "Yeah, afraid. You can be intimidating."

He took a moment to mentally review Molly's past behaviour. Had he intimidated her? He'd only meant to keep her at a distance. In fact he'd done so with all women. His eyes landed on Eve's. "But you're not afraid of me." It was a question disguised as a statement.

She inched forward more, not taking her eyes off of his. "No."

Sherlock's gaze began to falter and he broke eye contact, taking a moment to let his eyes roam down her body. The rain had slicked her flesh and it still shimmered in the places that hadn't dried. Her t-shirt was pasted to her chest like a second layer of skin. His eyes came back up to hers that were clearly delighted, shining blue against her tanned skin. 

"Why aren't you intimidated?" His deep baritone purred. It was decidedly more sensual than he'd intended.

Eve leaned forward. "Would you prefer I was?"

"I..." He hadn't considered any of this before. Scaring people was bad for business, but leading them on was troublesome too. Eve quickly stood and closed the gap between them. In a flurry of movement she reached down and grabbed his knees, forcing them apart and implanting herself between them. Sherlock's mouth was agape as he looked up at the woman towering over him, still dripping.

She curled her fingers into his hair and pulled him forward until his nose was practically touching the exposed flesh of her chest above her wet v-neck shirt. He stared up at her, startled and wide-eyed like a scared little boy. She smiled down at him, caressing the back of his head and pushing her body against him, firm but gentle.

"Are  _you_  intimated, Mr. Holmes?" She placed a soft kiss on his forehead. "Is that even possible?"

He said nothing as he looked up at her. For the first time since she'd met him he had no quick reply. Her heart raced at the feel of him between her legs. Silent, at her mercy. The man didn't know how he felt, that much was obvious. He didn't pull away, in fact she could have sworn he was leaning into her unexpected embrace. She couldn't read his expression. If anything, he was studying her. Waiting to see what she did next.

Eve cupped his face and moved closer now, whispering against his heart-shaped lips. "We can figure it out together. How you feel about me." _  
_

Sherlock swallowed hard. Women had been aggressive with him before. The vision of Irene Alder prancing around naked came to mind, but he'd never trusted her, not from the first moment Mycroft had said her name. She was interesting, yes, and clever too. But the criminal element to her life put her on the other side of a wall that Sherlock valued.

Molly's interest in him had always been clear, and she was an intelligent, accomplished woman who deserved respect. But her meekness and innocence had made it so she never elicited any kind of reaction in him. 

This, now, was different. Eve Watson had proved to be clever, brave, and bold, not at all dull, in fact somewhat intellectually stimulating, and his body had certainly provided enough clues to indicate its interest in her as well. All that was left were her motives, which he hadn't yet entirely finished evaluating. With a few exceptions, he'd spent most of his school days being bullied and mocked, invited out on dates as a joke and stood up enough times to figure that shutting down his involvement with the opposite sex after Uni would be the wisest course of action. 

He'd erected this wall for a reason. If observing John's interactions taught him anything it was that these things were messy, drawn-out affairs, and rife with distractions. Lord knows John was useless to him whilst in the midst of any kind of relationship. But another Watson was now slowly deconstructing that wall, while at the very same time he was trying to rebuild it against her onslaught. 

Eve took a step back, deciding she'd said her peace enough times now. She flashed Sherlock a comforting smile, his uneasiness apparent.

John returned, coffee in hand, sans Molly. "Alright, break it up," he teased, finding his sister a mere two feet from a baffled Sherlock who stared at her with narrow eyes.

"Rain's stopped," John went on. "We should get going."

"Right," Eve replied, not taking her eyes off Sherlock. Finally she turned to her brother. "Can I just check my emails first? I'm expecting an update from my editor."

With that she spun around and grabbed the laptop on the counter beside her, quickly flipping open the lid.

"Eve, wait!" Sherlock was on his feet.

But it was too late.

There it was. A screen full of Eve Watsons. Image after image. Her professional head-shot, her book opening photos, all lined up across the screen. Her heart jumped into her throat, but she slammed it closed again as she looked to Sherlock whose eyes were wide, his cheeks crimson.

"It can wait," she said, shooting him a wink.

"Let's make a break for it while we can," John said from the doorway.

"Right. See you later, Sherlock."

"Later."

Eve grinned like a fool. Leaving this man speechless was an oddly good feeling. She lunged forward and wrapped him in a tight hug, water wringing from her clothes all over his expensive suit and puddling on the floor around his shiny black shoes. She wriggled around his torso just to wet him a little extra, then she was off out the door with John.

Sherlock stood in silence, arms at his sides, his clothes now soaked. "Messy indeed," he mumbled as he looked down at his dripping body.

"What's messy?" Molly asked. He hadn't even noticed her return to the lab. Distracting, he confirmed to himself.

Molly took one look at the sopping detective and, making a quick deduction of her own, sat down with a thump and didn't speak to him for the rest of the afternoon.

 

 


	5. Green-Eyed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve has a real date this time. Sherlock tries to understand why this frustrates him so.

Eve saw the new email from her publisher's UK office and smiled. She'd been in touch with them many times over the last year, specifically their marketing department, brainstorming ideas to promote her newest book across the pond. After a while her correspondence with Matthew had become slightly flirtatious, and this newest message confirmed it for her. He'd known she'd be in town and invited her out for a drink.

In her mind she immediately accepted, but as she hit reply Sherlock's face came to her thoughts unbidden. Although she'd come on to him brazenly time and again, he'd barely budged an inch in his sour demeanor. Except for the google episode, she was fairly certain he wasn't the least bit interested, and her efforts were beginning to seem wasted. Matthew, on the other hand, was now offering to take her out on the town. He was chipper and kind and emotionally reachable. Might as well.

Eve gussied up a little and said goodnight to John, tapping away at his laptop, and Sherlock, his nose in a book. John shouted out the obligatory _be careful_ big brother speech as she left the flat.

With no information to go on, Sherlock reluctantly asked, "Where's she off to at this hour?"

John turned from his laptop, the surprise at his friend's concern apparent. "A date. A real one this time."

"How could she possibly have a date?"

John chuckled. "She's a smart, pretty woman, Sherlock. They're not that difficult to come by for her."

Sherlock went back to his book. "Seems illogical," he mumbled.

"Sorry?"

"Creating romantic attachments on a different continent. Doesn't it seem a waste of time to you?"

"Oh, Sherlock. If you haven't yet grasped that other people don't see dating as a waste of time, I'm afraid there's nothing I can say." A pang of sadness rippled through John at the thought of Sherlock's complete and utter despondency with the human race.

After a few minutes of silence save for John's typing, Sherlock looked up from his book again. "Name?"

"John Watson, hello."

Sherlock let out a subdued growl. "Of her date, John!"

John leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, his attention now fully on Sherlock. "Matthew Garrett," he offered. "They've been emailing for a while. Work stuff."

"Ah." Sherlock went back to reading, but John knew he wasn't the type to request information with no purpose. He went back to his blog post but kept his peripheral focus on his flatmate who was shifting uneasily in his leather chair.

Suddenly there was a blur of movement and Sherlock was dashing across the room to his desk. John watched eagerly as Sherlock flipped open his laptop and began typing.

John groaned. "Sherlock, please don't hack into the Scotland Yard database over this. Please?"

"I'm disappointed in you, John," he said, not looking up from the screen. "Where is your concern as an elder brother? You're writing up the Jeremy Walker case as we speak, so I assume you haven't forgotten the dangers of online dating."

"No," John said, rubbing his forehead. "This isn't like that. She knew the guy. He wasn't prowling the internet for victims."

"Work stuff," Sherlock quoted with a scoff. "Perfect cover."

"You're being ridiculous. I'm going to bed." John climbed the stairs and disappeared.

Sherlock sat in the quiet room, digging up everything he could about Matthew Garrott, junior marketing associate, which ended up being very little besides a few innocuous social media accounts. For a moment he contemplated hacking into Eve's email to find the location of the evening's rendez-vous but decided that would in fact make him the online weirdo.

He closed his laptop and paced the room for a while, pondering Eve's advances and now her outing with a new man. Strange how people juggled their interests like that, bouncing around from person to person. The complexity of one person was enough to give Sherlock a migraine and yet others seemed to socially multitask with ease. He very much disliked that there was a skill he didn't possess that most everyone had mastered.

A few hours later, as he sat at the kitchen island fiddling with a severed thumb, Sherlock heard the downstairs door open and voices start to ascend the stairs. He sat motionless and listened as they grew louder, now right outside the door to 221B.

"Thanks for inviting me out," Eve's muffled voice penetrated the door. "I had fun."

"It was my pleasure. I'm glad you finally got to come to London." The other voice had a gruff quality but the intonation revealed sincerity.

There was no speaking for a moment, then the door opened and Eve entered. Sherlock, realizing he'd been leaning closer to hear, turned back on his stool and hunched over his experiment again. Why was their conversation of any interest anyway? Drivel, all of it.

"Figured you'd be up," Eve spoke from around the corner. 

"Working."

"As ever." Eve made her way to the sofa and plopped down with a huff.

Having reached a point in his experiment that required four hours of waiting for results, Sherlock rose from the stool and joined Eve on the sofa. He should really do his duty to John and make sure she hadn't been drugged on her date.

"Feeling woozy?" he said as he sat down as far from her as he could while still being on the same piece of furniture.

"Beg your pardon?" Eve asked. She shifted closer as her eyes widened.

"Nothing slipped in your drink, I mean." Sherlock could faintly detect alcohol, but no other chemicals except the subtle scent of a rose perfume.

Eve cackled and slapped her knee. "Sherlock Holmes, is that concern I detect?" She thew an arm over the back of the sofa and again closed in on him.

He rolled his eyes. "Can never be too careful."

Eve looked him up and down and pursed her lips. "I'm perfectly fine."

Sherlock balled his hands into fists then released them. Why was his brain acting so odd? Why the sudden intense curiosity? He chalked it up to his naturally inquisitive nature about all things. "I suppose I should ask how it was, then?"

"Ohhh!" Eve giggled. "Are we becoming friends now?"

"Forget it." He went to stand but she pulled him back down to the cushions. This was a charming development.

"He was a perfect gentleman," she began. "First it was mostly talk about work, but then we got to know each other, our hobbies, you know the usual."

"I have no idea what the usual is," he reminded her. "But I suppose he would have a lot to talk about, what with his recent trip to Peru, all the skiing he does, and his recent promotion at the publishing house."

Eve's mouth fell open. "Why you big stalker, you!"

"Nothing that isn't publicly available," Sherlock defended. "You should try doing some research once in a while. That is, apart from American Civil War attire and courting rituals."

"Did you read my book?!" She was almost on top of him now, her eyes shining as she gave his shoulder a playful jab.

"Down girl," he commanded, trying his best to control this new and ever so frustrating flush that kept creeping into his cheeks. He'd really have to look that up, see if there existed any techniques. "Took me twelve hours, hardly _Gone With The Wind._ "

"Coming from you I"ll take that as a compliment."

Sherlock forced a smile. She was glaring at him as if he were an exhibit on display at a museum. Chit chat was not his forté but he felt the urge to fill the silence as Eve gaped at him.

"Seeing him again then?"

Eve's eyes narrowed. "We'll see," she said, a note of apprehension in her voice. "No use getting attached, being that we live an ocean apart."

Sherlock lit up at this. "Just what I said to John! No point at all, really."

Her eyes took him in, top to bottom. He'd talked to John about her. Another breakthrough. "No, no point. But sometimes having fun  _is_ the point." She tucked an auburn curl behind her ear as she tried to make sense of the strange man's new found social etiquette, shaky though it was.

"Didn't _make a night of it_ then."

Eve laughed again. "Didn't think you'd know that phrase," she teased.

"John is a valuable resource for colloquialisms."

"Well, no," Eve's hand brushed lightly against his arm, dragging a finger lightly up and down the soft fabric of his robe. "Didn't make a night of it. He was a bit boring, to be honest."

"As are most people."

"Not you, though." She reached a hand out and grabbed Sherlock's chin, turning him to face her. She was done with conversations in which he stared at his lap. He'd have to learn. His eyes were piercing but unreadable as he looked at her. "You're fascinating," she breathed softly.

"I'm...I..." Dammit, he hated stuttering. Such a sign of weakness.

Sherlock's pulse quickened and his mouth went dry as Eve stared at him in silence. His head had filled with possibilities earlier as the voices had quieted outside the door, most of which infuriated him, although he couldn't think why. He'd remembered the ruby lips, sipping the pint in the pub that night, as those blue eyes regarded him from afar. The way he'd blushed then, as he was more than likely doing now. He thought of Eve's hands curling around his hair and those lips on his forehead, the only intimate touch he'd felt in years. Then he imagined those same lips touching Matthew Garrott, the painfully average man with an online poker addiction, outside the door to his flat. And he hated it.

Then Eve stood from the sofa. Sherlock felt his clenched muscles go slack and his lungs expelled a prolonged breath. A wave of sentiment overcame him then, one he'd experienced many times before, but always on cases. The sense of a missed opportunity. Of an urge ignored and the frustration that follows.

"Off to bed then." Eve had pushed his limits enough in the past few days. Some of his boundaries just might turn out to be impassable. 

"Night," came his flat response from the sofa. He watched her leave as he took several deep yoga breaths. _The dogma's ridiculous but the practices can be beneficial_ , he'd told John. His pulse finally returned to normal, but the nagging sensation deep in his gut remained. He was very much acquainted with the sensation of wanting something, in fact he had a problem with the need for instant gratification. But this was new. This was frustrating and complicated. Wanting _someone_.


	6. Instinct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is faced with a new challenge - comforting a crying Eve Watson.

It was two in the morning when Sherlock finally made it back to the flat after spending the night at Scotland Yard, watching Jeremy Walker's questioning through a one-way mirror. Of course he had vehemently denied any wrong doing, but a few slip ups was all Sherlock needed to blow several large holes in his story, enough for Lestrade to charge him. It had been satisfying, but as Sherlock climbed the stairs he felt uneasy. There was something badgering him in the back of his mind, something unfinished, something lacking in his normal sense of completion after a case. He was eager for the next puzzle to solve, yes, but this was different.

Sherlock opened the door as quietly as possible. It was always wise to avoid an ugly scolding from John for waking him in the middle of the night, plus there was a houseguest to consider.

But there was their guest, curled up on the sofa in a blanket, lit only by the soft glow of the television. Insomnia, that's right. As he hung his coat he noticed the bundle on the sofa start to shift and sit upright. Eve's hands rubbed her eyes and there was a sniffle and a clearing of the throat. The distinct sounds of emotions that Sherlock loathed and tended to avoid at all costs.  _She likes you, and she's family,_ John's voice rang out in his head.  _BE NICE._

Sherlock shrugged off his suit jacket and turned to the sofa. "Jeremy Walker won't be going on any more dates for a long while," he offered. 

Eve was wiping her eyes with a tissue and forcing a smile. "That's great news."

Sherlock's stomach twisted uncomfortably. Eve's eyes were red, her cheeks flushed, and her hair a ratty disaster. It didn't take superior skills of deduction to see that she was upset, and ignoring her current state would surely fall into the sphere of  _don't be such a dick._ He gestured to the sofa. _"_ May I?" Eve nodded, keeping her eyes on the TV.

He sat beside her, keeping his eyes down. What does one say in these circumstances? There, there, and a pat on the back? No, that was unhelpful and trite.

Eve looked over at Sherlock who was nervously wringing his hands. He didn't even have the sense to say _what's the matter._ So she took the lead, as per usual. "I just got the first proof of my book back from my editor," she sniffled. Her voice was weak and hoarse. "He hated it. I may as well start over."

"Ah." It was all he could think to say. He quickly glanced up at her, grateful that she was staring mindlessly at the TV, her elbow propped up on the arm of the sofa and her head lazily resting on one hand.

"Yeah," she droned. "Maybe two good books was all I had in me."

Sherlock was taken aback by this uncharacteristic insecurity. "Of course not. For fiction, your writing is excellent. Witty dialogue, original storylines, and you left the ending open for your main character to continue exploring. There is certainly another book there."

Eve's head slowly turned to the man at her side. "Thank you, Sherlock. Really." The smile that crossed her lips was genuine now.

"You're welcome," he said. "You read all of our cases, I thought it appropriate to read your work as well."

Eve chuckled. "Much appreciated." She wiped away a straggler tear from her eye.

"At any rate, you shouldn't be crying, you should be writing a new draft. Moping won't get the work done." It was the best advice he was capable of.

"I know you're right," said Eve. "It's just sometimes I need a little bit of Jessica Fletcher therapy." She nodded toward the TV.

Sherlock dipped into his mind palace in a flash and came up empty. "Sorry, who?"

Eve's posture stiffened. "Oh my God, the great Sherlock Holmes has never heard of  _Murder, She Wrote_?

He looked to the screen to see a woman, mid to late fifties with short blonde hair, 1980s era. Pop culture trivia. The worst. "Nope."

"Well settle in, my friend," Eve chimed, her mood obviously lifted as she threw the blanket over Sherlock's lap. "You may find this somewhat relatable." There was a conspicuous twinkle in her eye.

"Doubtful."

But he couldn't deny the parallels to his own life, he and John rolled into this one old maid who simultaneously wrote about murder and solved it. After the second episode, in which Sherlock predicted the ending after the first ten minutes, Eve turned off the television.

She looked at Sherlock with a grin. "So?"

"Not completely terrible," he admitted, and Eve laughed. He felt an odd swelling of pride. Rarely did he make anyone feel better about anything, ever, but he'd done it. He'd turned Eve Watson's sulky mood into something else. And with minimal effort. It had been instinctual, really. Seeing the most confident woman he'd ever met be wrapped up in self-pity had been off-putting and unnatural. He had simply righted a wrong. 

Sherlock noticed her cheeks had returned to a healthier colour and the red in her eyes had subsided. But the hair. It still reeked of depression. Without thinking, he reached out and smoothed down a particularly wild auburn lock of hair, tucking it gently behind her ear. Even through such a small touch, he felt Eve's body tighten.

"Sorry," he blurted. "It was just sticking up and frankly quite ridiculous so I..."

"It's fine," Eve smiled. "Thank you. For the hair, for hanging out with me."

Hanging out. Is that what had happened? He'd simply occupied the living room at the same time as her. She stared at him for a long moment as she ran her fingers through her hair, taming it and adjusting it into its usual configuration of soft curls. "I must be such a mess," she said.

The soft scent of vanilla wafted past Sherlock, surely a hair product of some kind.  Suddenly the unfamiliar pull deep in his gut resurfaced. There was something new, different now as Eve sat next to him on the couch, her efforts at seduction shut down for the moment. She was calm and quiet, not grabbing him or teasing him. Just existing. No agenda.

Eve sighed heavily and leaned back into the sofa. She turned to say something but stopped at the sight of Sherlock staring at her, those intense eyes unmoving.

"You're not a mess," he almost whispered. "You're quite lovely in fact, without the lipstick, the incessant taunting. Beautiful." Sherlock seemed to snap out a trance, a hint of embarrassment flashing across his face. He cleared his throat. "Objectively, I mean. Your features are attractive and by modern standards..."

Eve cut him off. She reached out and grazed a finger across his cheekbone. "Sherlock Holmes is sweet." She grinned. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone." Her finger traced a line over his lips, his mouth half-open now, his eyes narrow. "I guess I'll be off to bed."

Sherlock swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. His stomach fluttered and his head was starting to spin. The effect Eve Watson had on him was interesting indeed. It was both incredibly pleasant but somehow frustrating.

She left him frozen on the sofa as she headed for the stairs. All he could do was watch her leave, clad in a baggy jumper and sweatpants. No more skimpy shorts or revealing tops. Sherlock felt his insides shift around, as if his body was willing him to action. The distance between them began to grow as she climbed, four, five steps away now. The room was now much too quiet, something he had never before felt, silence normally his best ally. It felt cold and uncomfortable. He didn't want to be alone. He didn't want her to go. His body told him as much.

Sherlock burst into action and closed the gap in a heartbeat, grabbing her wrist and whirling her around on the stairs. His body moved in spite of his brain which usually made him keep a suitable physical distance between himself and others. But he let it happen. He gave up control to the ache in his belly, the new and confusing desire to touch.

Eve's eyes were wide, surprised by the hand on hers and the detective that was now pulling her towards him. She didn't get a word out before Sherlock's hands flew to her face, cupping the back of her head, his fingers entwined in her hair. Then his lips were on hers, a crushing desperate force that pushed her to the wall. Her heart did a somersault. 

It was a long moment before her lips caught up with her thoughts and she kissed back and wrapped her arms around his neck. She'd touched him before, but this was new. Definitely different from all the times she'd grabbed at him and he'd practically shuddered beneath her hands. His hands were at work now too, sliding from her hair down to her waist where he grabbed greedily at her flesh, all the while his mouth exploring hers. She hadn't expected Sherlock Holmes to be a good kisser, but she positively melted as he took her bottom lip between his and gently flicked with his tongue.

Sherlock acted on instinct, his mind a blur without a single coherent thought. It was all action, no thinking. His chest swelled with the utter satisfaction of an urge fulfilled. He hadn't even consciously known that this was what he'd craved, but as he tasted Eve Watson, felt the curve of her hips in his hands, he realized what had been nagging at him. He finally understood why the general population spent so much time and precious brainpower in the pursuit of this. It was freeing. It was intoxicating.

As he pushed against her, Sherlock felt a hot tension begin to grow below his waist. He felt her smile against his mouth, but a surge of panic overtook him. He pulled back, releasing the panting woman on the stairs. "I'm sorry," he breathed heavily. Without another word he took off down the stairs and rounded the corner to his bedroom. He snarled as he fled, completely humiliated at his lack of self control and forcefulness. Who was he becoming?

He slammed his door, sat down hard on his bed, and reluctantly adjusted the hard bulge in his trousers. He felt like a predator, powerless over his body's baser desires.

Eve crawled into bed with a racing pulse and shallow breaths. Her mouth still burned from the frantic pressure of the heady kiss. She felt a pang of guilt, seeing Sherlock flee like that, but she reminded herself that he had initiated the moment. For once. It would have to be baby steps with this man, she decided. This was all very new to him and Eve knew she'd have to tread lightly if she was going to tear down the last remaining bits of Sherlock's walls.


	7. The Matter at Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's walls are down and Eve takes matters into her own hands.

The dream came more vividly this time, crisper, vibrant and colourful with sharp lines. Warm hands rubbed firm stripes down his bare chest and he felt oddly at peace with the skin to skin contact. It was this sense of peace that alerted his brain to the dream. A waking Sherlock would have none of that. Except here, in the timeless surreal world of his dream, he laid back and watched as the hands explored him, as the hungry blue eyes burned a hole in him.

Tricky thing, a lucid dream. Not the first he'd ever had; they would sneak up on him occasionally during some of the more peculiar cases. His mind palace and his dreams would entwine to form one ethereal place where he put things together, dug through his own intangible archives for information. And in this sleepy aware state he let the auburn curls drape over him. He encouraged the groping hands with his mind, willing them to keep searching for whatever it was they were looking for. He thought _harder_ , and they moved more forcefully. _Lower_ , and they inched down his stomach. His own slender fingers reached out and cupped a perfect breast and Eve Watson was sighing in his ear. 

Sherlock awoke with a start, flustered and vaguely disappointed. He remembered his outburst from the previous day and groaned. It was an all too familiar feeling - a craving nagging in the back of his mind, pushing away his focus and taking centre stage, a cloud over his usual sharpness. And then the regret of indulging. Feeling like a slave to his physical form, his not-so-intellectual needs. 

It was three thirty in the morning, but for Sherlock that meant a new day, even if the city still slept around him.

 

Eve sat at the kitchen island sipping a coffee, lost in the newspaper before her. She'd needed something to take her mind off the scathing edits of her first draft, and Sherlock Holmes had given it to her. She replayed the stairway escapade in her mind again and again, in utter disbelief that the stern introvert had finally melted and given way to a fierce, passionate man. A man who took what he wanted, even if he barely understood what _it_ was.

His hasty retreat was a less warm memory, his mumbled apologies, the way the flush in his cheeks had turned from desire to shame in an instant. Eve knew she'd pushed and teased him, but she'd never crossed what she felt was a very defined line in the sand. He'd kissed her first. She'd only opened the door for him to do so. Sherlock had been the one to barge through, quite literally. She remembered her back to the wall, his body pushing against her, almost desperate. She cleared her throat and pushed back the rising flutter in her belly. Based on his reaction, she was certain it was a one-off type of moment. Probably a first and last kiss all rolled into one.

Eve heard soft footsteps and looked up from her paper as Sherlock strolled into the kitchen. She watched as he noticed her, his expression the proverbial deer in the headlights. She tried to stifle her sigh of frustration to be looked at like that. It had been a whole day since their little moment, and Sherlock had taken every precaution not to even come near crossing her path. But now he couldn't avoid the confrontation without spinning on his heels and downright bolting. He stood with his mouth agape for a moment, his eyes crossing from the coffee pot to his feet and back as he nervously ruffled his hair.

"Oh for the love of God, just sit down, Sherlock." She'd had enough of his schoolboy awkwardness. "I won't bite you." She flinched slightly at her own words, mentally reliving the feeling of his teeth nibbling her lip. She stood and poured him a cup of coffee as he sat down across from her without a word. Her icy exterior relaxed a little at the sight of his downcast eyes. "Please don't act this way," she pleaded. "I'm here for another two weeks and I'd rather not deal with you wearing your regret on your sleeve like this."

Sherlock pulled at the sleeve of his dressing gown.

"It's an expression," Eve rolled her eyes.

Finally he spoke, low and breathy. "The way I acted..."

She refused to let him try to apologize, if that's where this was going. She slammed her now empty mug on the table and his eyes snapped up to meet hers. " _The way you acted_ ," she repeated, "was fantastic."

Sherlock stared at her, his brow furrowed. 

"Don't look so confused," she said. "You're smarter than that."

He contemplated that for a moment. "I lost control. It won't happen again."

Eve's shoulders slumped and she exhaled long and loud. "What are you so sorry for?" she pushed. "It's what I wanted. Or was I not clear the past week?" She knew she'd have to spell it out for him. She stood from her seat, placed her palms flat on the cold granite and leaned over the island towards him. "I. Want. You." Sherlock was silent, barely able to keep eye contact. Eve reached out and lifted his chin, forcing him to look at her. "I LIKE YOU. People who like each other tend to want to do the things we did. And more."

She watched as he blushed under her fingers and couldn't help but smile. For a brooding genius, he looked so innocent. It was disarming. Eve was circling the table now with Sherlock's eyes fixed on her.

"I'm no good at... these... things." He winced as his usual eloquence and poise went out the window. He sat frozen as Eve sidled up behind him in silence. He felt obliged to continue. "I'm a terrible..."

Eve's hands were on his shoulders now, rubbing his tensed muscles, and the rest of his sentence escaped him. He was glad she couldn't see his eyes drift closed under her touch.

"Terrible what?" she whispered into his ear. She had no intention of letting him answer the question. "Kisser?" She placed a barely-there peck on the curve of his ear. "I can say now with total confidence that's not true." She dropped another small kiss on his earlobe and felt him shiver. Eve let her hands glide down his silk-covered shoulders. His muscles were tight but he made no move to get away. Feeling bolder, she took his ear in her mouth and sucked lightly. She was rewarded with the deep vibration of a stifled groan.

"I keep thinking about what happened," Eve breathed against Sherlock's cheek as her hands now wrapped around his torso. "You should know how fucking amazing that was." She kissed his sharp jawline and made a trail with her lips down his neck as her fingers drifted across his chest. He was almost purring now. She pushed her mouth to his collarbone and let her tongue peek out just a little against his skin. Eve felt a thump on her shoulder, and when she looked up she saw Sherlock's head tilted backwards resting on her, his eyes closed.  _Success._

She dove into the crook of his neck, opened her mouth, and sucked delicately. "You taste sweet." He was no doubt out of practice and, although he exuded fearlessness in most areas, Eve wondered if this was the kind of thing he was insecure about. She reassured him, more air than words. "You're beautiful."

Sherlock's mind was reeling. His stoic exterior was crumbling beneath those hands, with that hot breath against his skin. Eve Watson's game was becoming something he wanted to play more and more with each passing moment. But she was in charge now. And for the first time since he could remember, giving up control felt utterly blissful.

Eve dropped her hands to his thighs and he held his breath. He was suddenly aware that his pants had grown tighter. His body strained against the fabric, a mind of its own, and Sherlock gulped. Her fingers tickled his legs gently and he felt himself grow harder. He was aching now, a dull throb between his legs that begged for attention. Eve kept her cheek pressed to his as she grabbed handfuls of his flesh, rocking her hands up and down over his shaking thighs. All he could do was lean back into her and exhale slowly. His pulse was racing. He should say something.

"Eve," he moaned. "I feel..." He really was rubbish at this.

She sensed his hesitation and interrupted with a kiss to his temple. "You _feel_. And that's okay."

"Hmm," was his mumbled reply. 

While she massaged his now shaking thigh, Eve let her fingers drift upwards under the thin fabric of his t-shirt. She wanted the full tour of his body but kept her pace slow. She wanted to avoid another panic and run moment, but he seemed calm now, relinquishing his anxiety. He was quickly becoming putty in her hands. She brushed her palm across his nipple and felt it grow hard. Her lips curled up in a grin as Sherlock released deep grumbling noises.

Both hands were on his thighs again and Eve was now well aware of the bulge reaching out. He wasn't going to run this time. She kissed softly at the corner of his mouth that was still half-open and almost panting. "Let me touch you," she whispered.

"Eve," came the whoosh of breath from his mouth. "Yes."

With a smile, she let her hands glide between his legs. Sherlock gasped at the contact. It had no doubt been a long time for him. Eve brushed her hand across the taught fabric, gentle at first, before curling her fingers around the stiff form. A light squeeze. Sherlock moaned in her ear. So far so good. She gave him a firmer pull this time and she felt his back arch against her.

The sudden need to see those cyan eyes overcame her and she brought one hand up to turn his lolling head towards her. His eyelids flickered open and Eve almost couldn't breathe. They were different now than she'd ever seen them, not cold and calculating, but relaxed and wanting. She pressed her lips to his and he responded immediately, opening up and letting her in. For all the harsh things that escaped those lips, they were completely soft and warm as they danced across her mouth. She'd always known he was capable of this. She'd seen through the bitter exterior from the start and felt a thrill knowing that she'd finally brought it out in him. Sherlock's guard was down. More than down; it had vanished.

Her grip between his legs grew tighter now and Eve trembled as his baritone groaned encouragement against her mouth. She pulled at the elastic band of his pajamas and slipped her hand underneath. Sherlock's breath grew shallower now. He was truly letting her in. Eve wrapped her fingers around his length and gave it a slow, languid stroke. His skin was hot and she grinned as he pushed upwards ever so slightly into her fist. She pulled back from his mouth and spoke against his lips.

"God, Sherlock. You feel so good."

His arms sprang into action, reaching up behind him and grabbing fistfuls of her hair. He pulled her lips back to his and thrust his tongue into her mouth. Eve's body was positively vibrating now, her own needs welling up inside, making her skin tingle. But this was too good. Sherlock at her mercy, Sherlock melting in her hands. She could wait for her own satisfaction.

She pulled at him again, a firm up and down that caused his hips to lift off the stool. She twisted her grip in a slow circular motion and Sherlock squeaked. She wanted to show him everything, every sensation he'd been stubbornly missing out on. She steadily increased her pace, spurred on by his deep moans and mumbles of her name.

Suddenly a soft thumping sound invaded her ears. It was coming from the stairs. John.

"Sherlock, have we got any aspirin?" came the voice, growing louder as John descended. 

Eve whipped her hand from its warm nesting place and spun around. She needed a quick escape. She looked down at Sherlock's wide eyes that for once held no answers, and decided to get out of there. She sprinted out of the kitchen and down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

Sherlock sat dazed for a moment before grabbing the flowy fabric of his robe and adjusting it in his lap to cover the stiff lump between his legs. He felt the blood drain from his face and he tried to steady his erratic breaths against his body's angry protestation with this sudden interruption. 

"Dunno," he said as John rounded the corner wiping sleep from his eyes.

Sherlock fiddled with his microscope and leaned over it, desperately hoping his flatmate wouldn't notice the lack of sample under the lens, or the film of sweat that had accumulated on his forehead.

John rummaged through cupboards for a few minutes before heading back up the stairs to bed. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. John hadn't noticed the absence of his sister in the room they shared, too sleepy to truly observe. He stood from the table and made his way to the hallway to his own room. He stared down the long expanse for a moment at the closed door. He knew what was behind it. Breathing deeply, stabilizing his pulse, he moved forward, grabbed the handle with a shaking hand, and went inside.


End file.
